


Static.

by Kritty



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Study, Ficlet, Gen, Season/Series 01, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:12:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kritty/pseuds/Kritty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's always warmth and there's always life.<br/>There's always something before he even knows he needs it. Ficlet!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Static.

**Author's Note:**

> Set: Early Season 1.  
> Warnings: Not beta'ed (!!!). No spoilers. Also, English is not my first language.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Elementary. Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur C. Doyle, the Show belongs to Robert Doherty.

**Static.**

He's staring at the papers and the documents, the mess before him that creates order in his mind. He doesn't feel anything but the busy buzzing in his head, like white noise but much louder and calmer at the same time. His eyes are following invisible lines, his fingers touching soft fibre. And his heart is beating a steady rhythm, background music to a boring plot, and it picks up and starts to beat faster, when the invisible lines blur and the fingers lose the threads, flying through mid air in slow motion. His mind tries to catch up and bring the static back, but it's all gone and he doesn't know what's happening-

until there's a warm cup in his hands, steam floating up his nostrils. On auto pilot, he's bringing the cup to his lips and lets the hot, bitter liquid wake up his body. Instead, it soothes his soul, and the next thing he knows, he's on the sofa, hair a wild mop and back hurting just enough to make a shower look rather brilliant. There's a bag of milk in the fridge and he drinks from it, a small voice in the back of his mind piping up and telling him that milk should be sour. But it tastes just fine.

He doesn't remember the shower, but he remembers ignoring the ringing and the knocking on the front door. He's back on the floor, eyes fixed on the past and the future and the present, on the would be and the would have been, hopefully on the will be. The white noise is back and he enjoys it. He hates it too, but he needs it and yes, he also enjoys it. He wants to get distracted and almost starts the next chapter of his Bee Book, feeling a light tremor in his left pinkie and a hollow feeling in his chest. Cereal appears on the chair beside him and he gets up and takes it, mouth already opening. Showing off is essential, so the words are gushing out of his mouth, carefully lined up and spoken with intent. He is talking, listening to himself, watching the face in front of him and he's also eating and breathing and living. The hollow feeling disappears and his pinkie is laughing at him. He turns his head to look at his mind and wants to show, just wants to show how it works. But then he's sitting on the floor again and he knows it starts again. 

He needs his invisible lines and the threads and the occasional hurting of his heart, the tremor. He's giving the wall in front of him a small smile, because it too knows that he will pass out and wake up with a new bag of milk in the fridge and a new day to live away.

He mentions it once, a smug grin on his unshaven face, because the little things of life never go unnoticed. The dry answer reminds him of the fact that he still has to get up to get to the damn milk, and the shower also doesn't clean itself, thank you very much.

Still.

It's a better static than his mind could ever offer him and even though he hates it, he enjoys it.

**Author's Note:**

> _______  
> End.  
> Thank you *gives you a cookie*


End file.
